The owl flies down from the midday sky, dark feathers burnished with white. It comes to perch on Albus' outstretched arm as they walk through the field of tall grass, on their way to the stream.
"Why, Mister Dumbledore," Gellert says. "Is that for you?"
Albus ruffles the feathers. "The owl was Mellara's coming of age gift from her parents. This is Hatter. Hatter, meet Gellert Grindelwald."
"Hatter?"
Albus laughs. "From a favorite book of hers."
Gellert is looking at him strangely. "Another cultivator of the fine arts?"
"I keep myself in fine company," Albus agrees. He shifts, so that he can untwine the string binding her letter to Hatter's talon.
"What does it say?"
He unravels the scroll. "She sends her greetings, says that her studies are going well, that she's made a few friends, that she misses me most dearly…" Albus shrugs. "She's pursuing a program to become a Healer. It ends in December, and by the new year she'll become a junior associate, serving as an attendant."
"An ambitious program," Gellert says neutrally.
"Not everyone needs to conquer the world before they're weaned." Albus studies his face. "Perhaps we should return. Hatter has always liked a slice of bacon to go with his departure, and it would not do well to upset the messenger. Would you come with me?"
Gellert nods stiffly.
This is the first time he has been in Albus' bedroom, he realizes. It has been scarcely decorated over the years, filled mostly with trophies and certificates, proclaiming one thing and another, accolades he keeps like pebbles on a riverbed. On the right is a shelf of books with thick spines and titles that vary from muggle to magical.
"Is that her?" Gellert asks. He points to a picture on Albus' desk, black-and-white, framed in rich wood. It is a wizard picture; in it, Albus and Mellara are posing before the Herbology greenhouse, cheeks flushed from the cold. They are laughing at something, Elphias off-camera, whose hair has been sculpted into icicles from the snow.
"That was our - fifth year," Albus says.
"She's pretty."
"I suppose?"
"Objectively, I mean."
Albus' eyes go from Mellara to Gellert, and then back to Mellara again. "Yes?"
He is about to offer to send him Mellara's owling address when Gellert Grindelwald turns abruptly and goes to the door. "We should go down now."
"Er, alright."
He has done something wrong, he suspects. Offended one of Gellert Grindelwald's Austrian sensibilities, committed an egregious social faux-pas that only the high and noble wizards of good Austrian society know. Albus mulls through their most recent conversations and can think of nothing.
Does it matter? Gellert Grindelwald will not speak to him.
When Albus stops by his home, he is always busy, with papers or books, out running errands or exploring the depths of Godric's Hollow. Bathilda Bagshot gives him a look the third time he comes over in two days. It is one part pity, two parts something akin to relief.
"Would you like to leave him a note?" she asks.
"It's alright. Would you tell him I stopped by?"
Bathilda Bagshot smiles. "Of course."
When Albus writes him letters, he will receive back just as detailed replies. But they are clinical. Coldly analytical where before they had been bursting with youthful wonder and mysticism, with small moments of a brilliant idea, Albus , and I'd never have thought of it as you did. Albus could be a NEWT examiner for all the formality Gellert Grindelwald shows him. He had even thought him incapable of such serious words until now.
Albus had no idea just how much time he spent with Gellert Grindelwald until then. He sits for hours and hours, a book in hand, eyes glazed. He cannot concentrate, and when he cannot concentrate, his mind wanders. And when it wanders, it reflects. Reflection means remembering, and remembering means regrets.
He does not want to regret.
Elphias Doge is in Italy now, and he sends back boxes of gelato and stuffed cannoli, delicate panna cotta made from the finest vanilla bean. And of course, wine. Italy, like many countries in Europe, is famous for their grapes. Albus gets twelve bottles one morning, viscous reds and thin whites; champagne that sparkles like the embers of a fire; fortified wine like sweet fruit juice.
I wish you were here, his letters say. Albus is almost tempted to down the twelve bottles in one morning, but at last he relents, and brings down a bottle of Barolo. Ariana procures wine glasses that have collected dust for almost eleven years, and even Aberforth sits at the dining table, grudgingly, to have a taste.
"Your friend's not coming over?" he asks
"Just the three of us."
He thinks he is drunk by the end of it; one bottle is three quarters of a liter, and muggle wine is entirely different from its wizarding counterpart; stronger, perhaps it is, and richer, with a refinement Albus had not at all expected.
Ariana takes a sip and gags. "This is - sweet. Too sweet. Worse than the time you tried to make vanilla pudding, Albus."
"Now, now." He swats at her head. "There's no need to be rude. To Bar - Barolo, or me, for that matter."
"This is posh," Aberforth says. He holds up the glass to the sunlight. "Looks like blood." He downs it all in one sip. "Pour me another, Albus."
He laughs. By the end of it they have cracked open three bottles, two red wines that taste like fine cherries and rich velour, and a bottle of champagne that makes his nose tickle and throat burn.
"Tell Elphias," Aberforth says, at once grumpier and more pleasant when sloshed, "to buy more bottles. Twenty, at least. I intend to spend the rest of the summer suitably drunk."
It is from this good cheer, Albus suspects, that he finds the courage to write Mellara Galus in London.
Come over , his words say. If he were sober, he would note that his penmanship becomes even more cursive and even more crooked when written by a drunken hand, like the Leaning Tower of Pisa with its base of loose sand. If he were sober, then Albus most certainly would not have written the letter that he did. But wine has a way of baring true intentions, and his owl is off before he can take back the parchment.
She apparates on his doorstep in a blue dress and a box of egg tarts in hand. "Albus?" Mellara says tentatively at the door. She had expected a sobbing drunk mess, or perhaps a hollow house full of grief. Instead it is Ariana at the door in a prim skirt, grinning from ear-to-ear.
Mellara, to her credit, blinks only once before her social graces return, complimenting Ariana's dress and the curl of dark ribbon that ties back her hair.
"It's wonderful to meet you," Mellara says. "Albus has spoken about you ever so much."
From across the room, their eyes meet. Albus fiddles with a bottle cap. He has never mentioned Ariana before.
"Did you try some of that wine Elphias sent?" Albus asks, as the silence stretches on.
Mellara kisses Ariana's cheek, eyes slipping over Ariana's thin wrists and starved complexion, and beams. "I would love to."
They eat a peaceable dinner that night, the topic of conversation twirling from Aberforth's goats to Mellara's studies, wandering by the obvious.
When it is done, Albus offers to show her around Godric's Hollow.
"There isn't much to see," he admits, "but -"
"Godric Gryffindor was born within these walls." Mellara smiles. "You would not mind, Ariana, Aberforth?"
Ariana shakes her head; Aberforth gives a grunt. Mellara has long-ago been accustomed to his brusqueness. She sets a hand on Albus' arm. "Show me the great village of Godric's Hollow, then."
They walk in silence for a long time. Albus can see it in the flicker of her eyes, how the topic of a hidden sister lies burning between them. "She's not a squib," he says. "Only... unwell."
"You don't owe me an explanation," Mellara tells him, slowing so that she can look him in the eye. She is kindness and quiet sincerity, and not for the first time Albus cannot help but think he does not deserve this. "Your reasons are your own."
"Thank you," he hears himself say. His throat is raw with tears unwept.
Mellara squeezes his hand. "How are you?"
"Better." Albus tries for a smile. "It is not always as gloomy in Godric's Hollow as it is today. There are, I promise, things to be done here."
"You've made new friends, at least."
"Jealous?"
Mellara chuckles. "Extremely. Everyone in my program wants to be the best, but so few have actual passion for life. They all want to be the next greatest Healer, another brilliant mind in medicine. None of them have time for Pride and Prejudice, or songs. I should introduce you to them. You'd destroy them in all our classes, even if you've never stepped foot into a lesson."
Albus laughs.
"Gellert Grindelwald sounds like he could be good for you," she says haltingly. "Does he live nearby?"
"Ten houses down. Over that -" Albus stops. His eye catches on a flicker of brass. "That's him."
Mellara looks at Gellert Grindelwald with a sort of guarded anticipation. "Let's go say hello."
Albus can see it in Gellert's eyes, even from so many meters away, the unwanted approach. But it would be unspeakably awkward if anything else were to happen; he settles himself and stops half a pace away.
Their three days apart have brought little change to Gellert Grindelwald. His gaze is stuck on Mellara. Albus follows it. She is pretty, he notes, almost disappointingly. He clears his throat. "This is Mellara Galus. Mellara, this is Gellert Grindelwald."
Gellert shakes her hand as a Ministry official greeting a foreign dignitary. "I am honored to make your acquaintance. Can I call you Mellara?"
"Only if I may call you Gellert."
He is all charms, as dark and brilliant as he had been when Albus first met him. "You are Albus' -?"
"Friend," Mellara says, wryly.
He seems to be waiting for something, but when neither of them add anything else, Gellert says, "And a good one too." He smiles innocently, but Albus knows he is gloating. "My aunt'll be looking for me," he continues. "I should go back home. It was wonderful meeting you, Mellara."
"You as well, Gellert."
When he is gone, she gives him a strange look.
"I know," Albus says.
"He is…"
"Different."
Mellara watches him go, staring at the folds of his robes, black like an inkstain against his pale hair. "That is certainly one way to look at it."
"You do not agree?"
"He makes you happy," Mellara says simply. "I cannot fault him for that."
It is dusk when they come to the graveyard, granite headstones that glow gray in the dying light.
"Here," Albus says.
Mother's grave is singularly beautiful, carved from the marble of a fallen star. It says simply a birth and a death, a name, and the words the greatest joy in the world is its people. It sits alone. Percival Dumbledore was buried in Azkaban, and the remains of her muggle parents are gone into the dirt in Wales.
Albus watches the glint of moonlight against stone. Mellara sets a hand on his shoulder. "Would you wait a moment?"
When she is back, she holds a bouquet of mourning: chrysanthemums, lilies; carnations bright like fire. It is a muggle arrangement. Albus watches as she sets it on the soil.
"I would have liked to have known her better," Mellara says quietly.
They do not speak for a long, long time.
It is full-dark when they leave the graveyard, a sky bright with silver stars. Albus wipes at his eyes.
Mellara has to leave soon after that. Her studies are time-consuming and laborious, filled with grim hours spent memorizing spells and anatomy, counter-curses and charms that waft between the nonsensical and pragmatic.
"I'm sorry I can't stay longer," she tells them.
Aberforth shrugs. "Do you want some of that wine Elphias sent?"
She laughs. "You are kind to offer. But he also sent me a sizeable collection. I think I ought to be well-stocked until my exams come winter."
Mellara hugs Ariana, and offers Aberforth a grin. She kisses Albus on both cheeks and squeezes him tight. "You should write to me more often."
"I am yours to command. Good luck with your classes," Albus says.
She laughs.
Gellert Grindelwald knocks on the door as soon as it is sunrise. He is almost shameless in his audacity.
"Is Albus home?"
As if he has anywhere else to be. Still half-bleary from sleep, Albus waves his wand and readies breakfast, coming downstairs to find Ariana beaming from the doorway.
"I'm home," he says. And smiles, despite himself.
"May I kidnap your brother?" Gellert asks Ariana.
"He's all yours."
"Breakfast is on the table," Albus says. His cheeks hurt from his smiling.
It is as if those three days had never happened. Gellert is back in his life once more, his shimmering genius seeping into all corners of Albus' day, soaking into the fabric of his daily routine until they are inseparable. Owls fly from their bedroom windows, carrying papers, theories, ideas.
Hours soar by, spent at the stream.
Albus does not know what he did wrong, and is far too terrified to ask, for fear of breaking this wondrous magic.
"There are three of them," Gellert says. "Peverell brothers, told as a tale to comfort children to an easy sleep. Do not fear death, mothers will say, for he who meets death honestly, meets death as a friend."
"Was it popular in Austria-Hungary, too?"
"Death or the Tale of the Three Brothers?"
Albus shoves him, laughing. "Both."
"Hmm. Well, no matter where you travel, death must always await. To live without death is to live without meaning. And as for the Three Brothers - you can find translated copies all around Austria. But if you asked a common school boy what the tale was, he would not be able to tell you."
"And you found it -?"
"Scholars whisper. I am not the first to have set my eyes upon the all-powerful. Even in the great Austrian empire do wizards fantasize after British treasures. I just happened to be smarter than them all." Gellert spreads his hands, none-too-modestly. "Godric's Hollow is a small village, but it keeps good records."
"The mayoral system -"
"Four hundred sixty-three years. But God can compete with that, and more." Gellert stops at their destination. The gates are black iron, and behind it, lies a field studded with dark stones, cloaked in the fog that clings to Godric's Hollow. Mother lies within, and Albus is caught with the thought, for the very first time, that to Gellert Grindelwald, raised with a silver spoon, Kendra Dumbledore means nothing to him. She was a word to be said, just as she had been for Mellara. Yet where Mellara will send her love, Gellert Grindelwald doesn't so much as look to where her grave lies.
"Ignotus Peverell," Gellert says, voice lowered in esteem. He shows him to the very deep of the graveyard; Albus has to tear himself away in order to focus on Gellert's words. "His name has been erased by the ardours of nature, but, look." His finger traces the engraven symbol, a triangle, a line, and a circle. "The Deathly Hallows."
Albus stares. "A wand, a cloak, a stone. Which would you want first?"
"The most powerful." Gellert Grindelwald lets the pad of his finger brush one last time against the gravestone. "The Elder Wand. With it, I would be unstoppable. The most benign spells could split mountains and lay ruin to the world."
"And what about dark curses?"
Gellert grins. "Magic is might. It will be glorious."
Albus looks around him, to the quiet stillness of the graveyard, reproaching him for speaking so casually after materialistic gains. "We should leave," he says at last.
Albus watches Gellert's fingers, deft as they weave stalks of grass and flower heads, wandless magic to rival the workings of Merlin. When he is done, they come together in a garland.
"Are you a dancer?"
"Dancing?" Gellert laughs. "Briefly. As a boy, schooled in all the proper ways of high Austrian living. The waltz. The International, the Viennese... Why do you ask?"
"Your fluidity betrays your mastery."
"Hush now, Albus, before I blush." Gellert winks. "A good Brit like you ought to know how to dance, too. All those Ministry galas you've been invited to - I'm certain you can hold your own."
"Barely." A pause. "Do you duel?"
"A different type of waltz, but one that I am just as fond of. I never thought you'd ask." Gellert sets the garland on the ground, gently. "Do you go by International Standard, like a gentleman, or are you more partial to a free-for-all?"
"Don't be rude."
Gellert laughs and throws back his head, hair bright in the sun. "Come then, Albus Dumbledore. Dance with me, and whoever stands unbloodied shall bear these heavenly laurels, crafted of mine own hands."
Gellert flourishes his wand, thin ash pointed for Albus' throat. Albus hefts his own, and they throw spells that glitter off the smooth sheen of leaves, reflecting off the stream. They circle each other in the hatched shade, words on their lips and power thrumming through their veins. It is like fighting a mirror; for every hex that Albus throws, Gellert is there to counter and brush off; when Albus lunges, Gellert parries, and they twirl, on and again.
He has never found someone who fights as if it is an art, flamboyance and passion and unquestionable mastery melded into one. The flowers in the field become sparrows that take flight; the ground beneath them rumbles with the blow of their curses. Albus is caught in the throes of something - a high that comes with finally flexing his claws after so long in the dark.
Finally in their dance, Gellert stumbles, takes too long to form a spell. Albus catches his ankles with a delicate tripping hex, and Gellert falls into the stream, blue flames flickering at the tip of his wand. Water splashes his neat clothes, turned muddy and soiled by the silt.
A curse comes forth, roared in German.
"Why, you sly -"
Albus is laughing when Gellert Grindelwald narrows his eyes and flickers his wrist, doing his best to not smile. Perhaps a little too willingly, Albus joins him in the cool water.
"You are a true villain," Gellert tells him, mud in his silver hair, scowl on his face. He rubs at his cheek and groans. "I must be hideous. What have you done?"
"Hush, now. It's an improvement in your looks."
"Why you nasty -"
Gellert Grindelwald laughs as he grabs for a handful of mud and throws as hard as he can.
Later, when the sun hangs low in the sky, they sit by the side of the stream, careful to stay away from the patches of mire.
"That fire, earlier, was a flimsy trick," Gellert says, brushing dirt off his clothes. He grimaces. "I've been working on it, trying to hone it for the past six months. I'd thought I had the incantation down, but it seems not."
"Tell me about the spell," Albus says, helping him to his feet. His hand is warm and surprisingly soft; in the heat of the moment, he is too flushed to make note of little else.
Gellert grins. "A variation on the common charms for fire. I'd hoped to make it like fiendfyre, but instead of blind destruction -"
"Controlled creation," Albus finishes.
His gaze is bright with reverence. "Fire must consume on principle, but it might also be molded, like clay. It's proven to be a tenuous beast." He frowns. "The calculations will need some revision. And," he looks at Albus, "a second pair of eyes, perhaps."
He bows his head, flushed at the honor. "Of course."
Gellert reaches down for something; when he stands, he holds the crown of pale daisies. "To the victor, Albus Dumbledore." His fingers brush against Albus' ear, soft like flower petals. He crowns him in the field, with the sun ablaze in their damp hair.
Aberforth watches Gellert Grindelwald, robes billowing in the wind as he makes his way back to Bathilda Bagshot's home. "You're happier when he's around."
They watch Gellert for a little while longer, as he turns back and sends Albus a little wave. Albus watches as Aberforth's lips twist.
"You don't like him," he says. It is not a question.
"No," Aberforth admits. "I can't tell if my jealousy clouds my judgement, or if he's secretly a murderous psychopath."
"Aberforth -"
"What?" He gives Albus a look. "You don't know if he keeps dead rabbits in his bedroom."
"Says the goat breeder."
"Hmph."
Albus laughs and pats his shoulder. "The goats are wonderful, I shouldn't have compared them to someone so marauderous as Gellert Grindelwald."
"That's hardly a word."
"It will be when I publish it in my next paper for Transfiguration Weekly. Trans-species Transfiguration and the failed experiment: a Tale of the Marauderous Mice. It's got a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
"Oh, bugger off."
Albus grins, and cannot remember feeling this happy in a very, very long time. "Tell me about your newest baby goat, then. You must be a proud father, to have assisted in the birth of your newest child."
"Kid," Aberforth corrects, scowling. "A baby goat is called a kid, not a child."
But he indulges Albus all the same.
"The Iliad," Gellert Grindelwald remarks one day. He lounges on living room sofa, golden hair pillowed against the wall. He juts his chin to the cover on the shelf, canvas pulled tight over card, the Prince Achilles embroidered over a flashing sun. "The original or a translation?"
"Translation."
He makes a face. "Pathetic. Truly, Albus, I thought you were better than that." Gellert Grindelwald sits up. "May I?" His hands are already flipping the cover open, pressing the papers between his fingers. The book is thick; some six hundred pages bound by glue, Homer's words and ancient drawings, the artists long-forgotten. Gellert Grindelwald pauses on an image. Its description reads Patroclus lamenting the death of Achilles . "Did you ever want to be Achilles?" Gellert asks.
"What boy did not?"
"God-born and beautiful, powerful… and dead before his days." Gellert Grindelwald looks up at him. "He could have lived in Pthia as a prince, and eventually as a king, and who knows how long he might have lived? And yet, he would not be Achilles if he did not go to war. He would not be Achilles if he let his greatness wither and wallow, ashes on a forgotten beach." His eyes have a faraway, glassy look to them.
"Given the choice between happiness and fame, what would you choose?"
He smiles one of his boyish grins. "What if my happiness came from my fame?"
"Love, then."
Gellert Grindelwald traces the rendition of Achilles' arms, wound tight around Patroclus' corpse. He looks back up at Albus. "Fame." Gellert Grindelwald closes the book gently, sets it back on the shelf. "People come and go, but glory reigns eternal. What would you choose?"
The silence between them lingers. Albus opens his mouth and closes it again. He does not know.
Once the subject of the Iliad has been broached, its shadow hangs faint in the distance, birthing conversations on philosophy and anthropology that stretch to the stars.
Gellert Grindelwald leans back in his seat, draped carelessly. "Can you imagine being thirty-three?" He speaks of Neoptolemus, Achilles' son, nearly forgotten by time despite having forged a kingdom and slain the great King Priam.
Albus laughs. "Ancient."
"Ancient. Imagine me, then. Would my beautiful hair begin to whither away? Oh, what shall I ever do without my dashing looks, Albus?"
"I have heard of charms and spells that may be able to fix certain imperfections, though I have read of no cures for a lacking personality."
"Why you would never -"
Gellert Grindelwald lunges for him, and their bodies tangle in the sheets. A laugh bursts from Albus' lips, as bright as clear glass, the first genuine giggle in nearly three weeks. He does not remember how it happens, but they find themselves in Gellert's bed, a pillow beneath them, draped one over another.
"You are a terribly cruel man, do you know that?" Grindelwald says.
"It is not me who insists on laying the full weight of their person on a hapless victim."
"Are you calling me heavy?"
"Categorically."
Gellert Grindelwald's smile twists at the corner of his lips, eyes bright with words untold. When he finally gets up, the sky had begun to darken.
"Gellert's in his room," Bathilda Bagshot says. She has a clutter of papers around her, full of maps and diagrams and words. She smiles up at Albus. "You can go right on ahead. Unless you'd like a biscuit?"
"It's quite alright, thank you, Madame Bagshot."
She tips her head and continues writing.
Albus mounts the stairs one at a time, and stops at Gellert's room; inside, over the sounds of a nameless opera, he can hear him humming to himself. Albus raises his hand to knock, just as the door comes open. Gellert ushers Albus in, his hand brushing against the hollow of his back. He nudges a chair. "Come, sit. Have you ever heard Otello?"
"Shakespeare?"
"No, that was Othello. Otello is an Italian opera based on Othello, written by Boito. Famous all across Europe. Cultured Europe," Gellert amends, and Albus laughs. "I've never had a chance to see it, but one day I would like to."
"And here I thought regular visits to the opera ought to be a part of your daily routine as a noble, up-standing, Austrian pureblood."
He chuckles. "My parents have little qualms with the higher arts. But Otello is a muggle opera, for all its merits." Gellert looks away. "It does not do to be a pureblood and a lover of muggle innovation. And yet for what? We have the heavens to learn from one another.
"A wizard is born with magic, and magic must create. But a muggle is born with heart, and the heart yearns for nothing but aesthetic expression. Their world is richer than ours for that." He looks to Albus and says, "I would like to show you it."
The conversation blurs. "The Otello?"
"The Otello," he agrees, "and the works of Liszt and Chopin; Mahler and Brahms. Muggles composers all, and as beautiful as the last. I cannot claim to know the fine arts as well as I know music and song, but all the same, perhaps you and I might visit the Louvre one day. I would like to show you the depths of muggle creation. Unfettered by wizarding judgment."
"Otello first," Albus says, grinning.
"Otello and the theater where it was first performed. Teatro alla Scala ." He frowns. "I have a terrible Italian accent."
"Certainly better than mine."
His grin is wry. "Somehow I doubt that. I had many lessons as a child, but I scarce paid attention to languages. One day I would like to take you to see Otello performed in a lush theater whose name I shall not butcher anew."
"We could stay there for a while. In Italy. Long enough for you and I to properly learn Italian."
"Years and years."
"An adventure."
He laughs. "I'm holding you to that promise," Gellert says.
Albus fiddles with the tip of a quill. He looks up, steals a slice of peach from Ariana's plate, and meets Gellert's eyes. He has been watching him write. When caught, Gellert is unabashed; he only winks and flips to the next book of his page.
It is a quiet afternoon. Opposite to Albus and beside their sister, Aberforth fiddles with a manual on goat breeding.
"I would make a jab at that," Gellert had once told him, "but it would be too easy of a move."
Albus was too stunned to do anything but laugh. His brother is here, perhaps only because Gellert had chosen to restrain himself. Sitting indoors, passive, is not at all like him. Albus suspects he is here for Ariana alone.
"Something interesting, Albus?" Gellert asks.
"Just a thought."
Aberforth rolls his eyes, but Albus ignores him. "What is it like, Austria-Hungary?"
"A difficult question to answer. The Dual Monarchy," and Gellert has a look of quiet contemplation. "You know enough of the wizarding parts of it, I suspect. The muggle half is no different. A vast land united through treatise, past kingdoms and duchies and empires, each waiting to tear the other apart. Unavoidable, but no more troublesome. I come from the remenants of the Austrian Empire, a fatherless child of the Holy Roman Empire.
"Austria-Hungary is a feat of diplomacy and bureaucracy. The closest example we have to a geographical superpower since the conquests of Napoleon. And much like the French Empire, it's unstable. And like all kingdoms nowadays, burdened by the decentralization brought on by a democracy, it'll turn upon itself by the end of the next decade."
Aberforth makes a sound that is half a snort, half a laugh. "You speak with certainty," he says.
"I speak with knowledge . The difference is subtle. I had a lengthy education in affairs both domestic and global, past and present. Albus told me of that sort of history professor you have at Hogwarts, and suddenly much seems clearer." Gellert flashes his charming smile. "History is a cumbersome wheel of its own, and the Dual Monarchy of which Franz Joseph loves so dearly is simmering in a roiling pot of unrest. There will come a war, such as the one that brought together the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which will tear that tremulous nation apart. I shall weep many bitter tears over its dissolution."
"Will lots of people die?" Ariana asks, wide-eyed.
Gellert bows his head. "Inevitably so. Some sources say as many as a hundred thousand men died while fighting the Prusso-Austrian War. Others say as few as fifty thousand. Who knows how many lives will be reaped?"
Ariana is horrified. "Have there been many wars in history?"
"What is a war? A clash between two entities, a crossing of blades in the name of higher meaning? If that is so, then there have been many, many wars in history. Some will die as soon as they are born; others will draw lines in the dirt and erase the old, tearing apart legions as great as the Roman Empire.
"When it is dark tonight, look out your window and count the stars in the night sky. For every pinprick of light you see, there have been ten wars fought."
"I don't understand," Ariana says. "So many -? Why would muggles fight such a thing?"
"Not just muggles," Gellert tells her gently. "Wizards, too. Men. Such is the nature of pride and nationalism and humanity. It is a universal constant. We fight wars for glory. Or greed. Or -"
Ariana leans forward, rapt. "The fairest maiden in all of Hellas?"
Gellert looks to Albus and laughs. "You are familiar with the Iliad as well, then. Yes, Ariana. Perhaps too the fairest maiden in all of Greece. Helen of Troy is both a symbol of glory and greed. We may scoff at the ideal of genocide in the name of a singular woman, but the Roman Empire - would it be as it was if not for Marcus Antonius, who threw away his good wife Octavia for the hollard Cleopatra?"
Ariana frowns. "What's a hollard -?"
"That's enough," Aberforth growls.
For once, Albus cannot help but agree.
Still, he does nothing to intervene as Ariana looks between Aberforth and Grindelwald, and at last settles on the latter. "Was Cleopatra the same Cleopatra as the Egyptian queen?"
"There have been many Queen Cleopatras, all Egyptian pharaohs. The seventh and most famous among them is Queen Cleopatra Thea Philopator, lover of Marcus Antonius. Her death ended with the absorption of mighty Egypt into the Roman Empire."
"So it was a peaceful conquest?" Ariana says, frowning.
"Conquests are arbitrary, and so too, perhaps is peace. The last twenty years of Roman rule would have been rife with political tension, and the past two would have been filled with violence. But her death was at her own hands, at her own time."
"She - killed herself?"
"Yes," Gellert says gently.
Ariana's eyes are wide, her lips parted as if gazing at Cleopatra's tomb, faraway and safe from the preening eyes of mortals. "Why would she kill herself?"
"Grief. Pride. Cowardliness. Her lover Marcus Antonius was dead. She would be paraded through Rome as her sister Arsinoe had once been, to be subjected to all the violations that came with being a prisoner of war. Her children would be killed, and all she had ever striven to build would collapse." Gellert continues, softly, "Given such desecration, would it not be easier to swallow that asp and prick that needle?"
"Yes," Ariana says, her eyes glassy.
Gellert has a way of speaking that is fluid magnetism; in his speech, Aberforth seems to have forgotten his earlier objections. Yet now he scowls. "That's enough, Grindelwald," he warns.
"A lesson in history no more," Gellert says humbly. "There are books that could be perused, I'm sure your brother has some - you will find, Ariana, that ancient history is a thousandfold more treacherous, more dramatic, more vile than anything we will ever experience. The more powerful the man, the more fateful their actions. The power in today's world has been diluted through democracy. You will nevermore hear of an empire birthed over the quarrel of two cousins, or of a ten year siege fought for the honor of one woman."
Ariana speaks, voice pitched low as if caught in a reverie. "I would like to see it, one day. Cleopatra. Her tomb."
Not unkindly, Aberforth says, "I don't think - that would be a good idea."
"I know," Ariana mumbles. She seems to only half-hear him, thinking of Queen Cleopatra and her lover Marcus Antonius. "But it would be nice. To see the world."
"Perhaps one day," Gellert says, and somehow Albus knows it is a promise. "No man alive knows where Cleopatra is buried. Perhaps it is for the better. All her life she had been bereft of solitude. In death, she finds the peace of obscurity."
"Oh," Ariana says. She frowns. "Are there pictures of her?"
"Marble sculptures. Some paintings remain, but Cleopatra lived and died two thousand years past. Most of what we know of her is half myth and half legend."
Ariana is silent, deep in thought. She seems to forget anyone else is in the room. "Do you think Cleopatra regretted it?"
"Daring to love Marcus Antonius?" Gellert asks.
"Killing herself."
Any other time, Albus would interject, add his two thoughts and try and steer the conversation away. Yet this moment is between Ariana and Gellert alone; Aberforth seems to realize the same, staring at his page in deference to their privacy.
Gellert rubs his chin and says slowly, "Death brings finality. A termination of all possible paths. Perhaps in her last moments Cleopatra remembered her daughter Selene and wished to look her one last time in the eye. Or perhaps she thought of regret; the roads not taken. Or perhaps she thought of nothing more but the quiet that would come after the induced seizures. I cannot say. Humanity is a pendulum in its predictability, but a single person? No, I cannot interpret her, no more than I can tell you about yourself." Gellert holds her gaze, steady. "But I can tell you this. Cleopatra was desperate. What she did, she did because in that moment she believed it was the right thing to do. Was it truly the right thing to do? That is not my place to judge. And yet perhaps if she had lived she might be saved. Perhaps by a wealthy patron or a patriot of Egypt and the Ptolemaic dynasty. Could she then be reunited with her daughter Selene? Her sons Cesarion, Alexander Helios, Philadelphus?
"The moment you kill yourself, you kill these possibilities. You murder your chance to dream, and is that not the greatest sacrilege?"
Ariana wraps her arms around her chest. "I suppose so." Silence. Then, "I wish there was a way we could hear her story. All her thoughts, her feelings, her misgivings. From her own hand."
"Such is the curse of history," Gellert agrees. "The accounts we learn will always be warped and ruined. We will be remembered - if we are remembered at all - as a shadow of our true selves. We will be either the hero we strove to emulate, or the monster we feared to become. It does not matter. In the end, we become exaggerated caricatures of the mortal men we had been. Is it then worth being remembered?"
Ariana fidgets with her sleeve. "That part doesn't matter," she says, lost in thought. "Who we are after death is not so important as who we were as we lived."
"But only if we have the courage to dream."
Ariana smiles.
They take to dueling just as often as they ramble on about spellcrafting and philosophy. It is messy - fighting often is - and between the two of them, neither are willing to yield unless the other is at their throat, wand pointed for the soft bulb under their chin.
In a cool afternoon, Gellert's hand is caught in the flare of a nasty hex. A flash of purple, a bloom of red against pale fingers. Albus knows at once that something must be wrong, but Gellert hardly lapses a second out of pace, and it is only when it is over, when he finally gives way to defeat, that Albus sees his hand has swollen. Mottled flesh, raw like flayed skin, curls up along his palms, twining down his wrist in jagged cracks.
"It doesn't hurt," Gellert insists, panting. "Truly." He winces, and Albus knows at once that it is much worse than what he lets on.
He kneels in the grass and cradles Gellert's elbow, studying the pattern of puckered skin. Some of it has begun to purple.
"All it would take is a spell -" Gellert bites his lip. "Albus, if you let me do a simple healing charm -"
"I shouldn't have used the hex," he mutters, more to himself. "I didn't know it would be so powerful..."
Beside him, Gellert chuckles through the pain. "It wasn't the hex that was powerful, though I'd certainly like to know its name. It's you , Albus."
He looks up for a moment, a faint smile on his lips. His hand reaches up to brush a lock of Gellert's hair that had fallen out of place. "This will need to be treated and cleaned. No simple spell will do."
"Ever the dramatic."
"There's no need to be rude," Albus says. He stands, and helps Gellert to his feet. "Come back home with me. I'm certain I have what we need."
"Albus -"
"Yes?"
"Albus I can treat my own hand -"
He hums. "I'm aware."
"Albus I'm hardly a toddler -"
"No toddler would cuss as beautifully as you do, Gellert."
" Albus - "
"Indulge me."
"Albus, please, for the love of your darling Merlin -"
Albus ignores him, pushes open the door to his house, and meets Ariana in the living room. She gives them a confused look, but continues to scribble away in her sketchbook.
"If you have any allergies," Albus says, as he gets out vials and bundles of gauze, small bottles filled with pure essence, "now is the time to tell me."
"Albus -"
"You're allergic to me? Hmm." He fills a basin with warm water. "That's hardly ideal."
He rummages around before he finds the small bottle, sealed with a nub of wax. He pours Gellert a small serving and mixes it with a tasteless base before handing him the cup. "Something for the pain."
"I don't need -"
"Something to keep me happy, then."
Gellert rolls his eyes, but he drinks. Albus pauses only for a second before he takes Gellert's wrist. His arm is lean and graceful; he is almost abashed when he rolls up Gellert's sleeve, feeling as if he has stumbled into a waltz half a beat behind. When he looks up, Gellert is pursing his lips to suppress a grin.
"What?"
"Nothing," he says, sounding far too sober.
"As you say." His chest is warm from the heat of summer and the fire of Gellert's eyes. "This will hurt," Albus warns.
He washes the wound carefully, brushing his finger over the edges of the raw skin, not daring to press too hard. Gellert watches him through it all, half hazy with pain, yet still sane enough to mumble.
Albus has faint memories of Mellara speaking on wrapping techniques; antiseptics, bandages, salves. He listens hard to her words now, when to use the dittany, and when to stop, where to treat first, and how long each strip must be.
"Have you done this before?" Gellert asks lucidly. He winces as Albus dabs a herb-scented ointment over the abrasion.
"I had this done to me, once," he says. "A Transfiguration accident which ended poorly for my elbow."
"Was it Mellara who wrapped your arm?"
Albus gives him a look. He dries Gellert's hand with a soft towel and begins rolling out thick layers of gauze. "Are you jealous?"
"Marginally."
"Marginally," Albus repeats, and laughs. He touches Gellert's chin, so soft he's not quite sure it happened. "You have nothing to be jealous of."
Gellert doesn't respond, but that is not unusual; Albus had given him an inhibitant to help with the pain.
He wraps Gellert's palm with the bandages, fingers tracing the length of his wrist, brushing against the knuckles of his hand.
"Does it feel better?" he asks.
"Much," Gellert admits, and drunk on potions and salves he holds himself differently; his chin is tucked a little lower, his stance relaxed like soft wax before a blazing fire. His head leans close to Albus, as if reaching for his touch.
Albus sets down the scissors and pulls down Gellert's sleeve. He brushes aside a strand of his golden hair, plastered to his forehead with sweat. He lingers on his cheek. Gellert leans in, just a little.
Albus laughs softly. "I think I might have given you too much of that sedative."
His eyes are half-lidded. "Taking advantage of a helpless man?" he slurs.
"Very helpless." Albus stands and takes his other hand, the one uninjured. "Perhaps it would be best if you slept through the worst of the effects. I suspect that Bathilda Bagshot would be most cross with me if she learns I fed you home-brewed potions."
"Your bed looks nice," he says, stifling yawn. Albus wonders if it is an act. He could have sworn he had dosed Gellert correctly, and sedatives don't take this long to act.
"As you say," Albus tells him.
Gellert hums and lets himself be led to Albus' bed. He is asleep before Albus pulls the coverlet over him.
This is, he thinks, the first time that he has seen Gellert sleep. He is smooth and polished as the statues that line the Acropolis, all the more human for his raw beauty. If Albus were an artist, he would pen the next Mona Lisa and raise Gellert's slumber to the heights of aesthetic immortality.
When Gellert wakes two hours later, he yawns and frowns. "I had the strangest dream," he says.
Albus sits at his side. "How does your hand feel?"
"Wonderful." Gellert blinks. "Were you watching me sleep?"
"Now, now, don't flatter yourself."
"That's not a no." Gellert closes his eyes anew. "Your bed is wonderfully comfortable."
"Thank you."
"I'd sleep here every night if I could," he says, sitting reluctantly. He winces as he puts pressure on his hand. Gellert looks down at it. "Thank you, Albus."
"It was not a problem."
"Still." His hair is mussed from sleep; Gellert wears it well, with a sort of rugged charm. "You could have inked a mustache on my upper lip. Your kindness was -"
"Not unexpected, surely."
"No," Gellert agrees and brushes Albus; cheek; it must be burning to the touch. "You should come over tonight. It's only fair that dinner be my doing."
Albus thinks he mumbles a reply; it's hard to say.
"Bathilda Bagshot told me you were staying only a week in Godric's Hollow."
"That was the original plan, it is true." Gellert shrugs. "It changed."
"Then," he asks, "when is the date of departure given your new plan?"
"I can't say." He looks at Albus. "Leaving isn't a priority at the moment."
"Why? You found the grave of Ignotus Peverell -"
"And discovered a far greater treasure in Godric's Hollow."
"Tell me," Albus says, grinning. "What is it?"
"Not a what. A whom." Gellert looks ahead. "You."
A/N:
This is the second part of Part 1.3 - only one last "chapter" before the summer of 1899 comes to a close :( I'm hoping to get the last part up... soon. I hope. Editing is fun, what can I say
Thanks for reading!